Awakened Hearts
by Aussie73
Summary: Mary Bennet changed after her humiliation at the Netherfield ball, folding in upon herself. The changed Mary is invited to Pemberley more than two years after Lizzy's marriage to Mr Darcy. Will the stiff Miss Bennet ever emerge from her prickly shell? Copyright 2017. Will be published on Amazon 6 May 2017, so only first two chapters available here.
1. An Invitation to Pemberley

**The author has copyrighted this story. This story may not be copied or reprinted in any form without the express permission of the author.**

* * *

 **April 1812:**

Mary Bennet of Longbourn had lived nearly one and twenty years in the world. The middle child of five, she was the only one unmarried. While she did not think highly either of men or of matrimony, her continuing unwed status had become a point of great concern for her mother. It was especially so since Catherine's recent marriage to a Major Edward Banks, an estimable young man that would bring much needed sense to Catherine.

Mary's parents were the basis for her poor opinion of matrimony. Entirely unsuited in tastes, temperament and information, Mrs Bennet fancied herself nervous when unhappy and Mr Bennet took solace in his books and the sarcastic sort of amusement that only a very silly wife could engender. The improprieties in her father's behaviour to her mother had always given Mary pain, but Mrs Bennet seemed entirely insensible to Mr Bennet's studied insolence; fancying that he merely loved to vex her. And, if she were to be honest, Mary was glad that her father's sarcasm was not focused on her.

Neither parent had ever favoured Mary Bennet, quiet, studious and plain – Mr Bennet preferring the clever Elizabeth above all and Mrs Bennet doting on the wild Lydia and the beautiful Jane. However, one could suppose that with all four sisters married and scattered across the land the Bennets' attentions would now fall upon Mary Bennet.

Suppositions are often inaccurate, and never more so in the case of the Bennet family. Mr Bennet was just as inattentive as he had ever been – his negligent attitude towards his daughters had suffered a brief attempt at repair after the disgrace of Lydia's elopement and patched-up wedding, but he had soon reverted to form. Her mother occasionally managed to exhort Mary into attendance at Meryton's assemblies, but appeared to have resigned herself to the fact that she would not live to see all five girls married off.

"Oh, what will become of you, Mary?" that worthy bewailed now, entering the drawing room in a flurry of lace cap and ribbons. "When your dear father and I are dead, and Mr and Mrs Collins" – she laced these names with frightful venom – "are come to Longbourn, what will you do? A young woman unmarried and with no prospects for marriage even! You will have to live off the charity of your sisters! 'Tis a dreadful fate – not to be borne."

Mary had too much forbearance to roll her eyes – she had been the recipient of such bemoaning since she entered Meryton society at fifteen. "Mother; do not fret yourself for I bear the prospect of spinsterhood very well," she said calmly, looking at the letter that had arrived for her just this morning. She traced the seal with her thumb. "I am invited to spend the summer at Pemberley – there I will make enquiries into the office of governess or companion through Mr Darcy's London connexions. By those means I will be able to support myself, and you and Father can rest easily in the knowledge that all your children are provided for in one way or another."

"A governess?" Mrs Bennet repeated. "To be at the beck and call of ill-mannered children, to have no comfortable home of your own. Can you be sensible of your decision, my dear?"

"Quite sensible," Mary replied, thinking with mild pleasure of the coming visit to Pemberley. She had never been there, but had heard that the grounds were beautiful and the pianoforte and library were magnificent. Mr and Mrs Darcy were people of much information, and with such uncongenial company at home, Mary could hardly suppose that being a governess or companion would be much worse. True; she would have no home of her own, but she would be possessed of a small competency upon her mother's passing, and in the meantime could live very satisfactorily on a governess's salary.

"Well, I do declare!" Mrs Bennet exclaimed. "You take great delight in vexing me; you have no compassion for my poor nerves. They trouble me monstrously."

Mary softened her tone, for she genuinely loved her mother, although she possessed little understanding of or sympathy for her mother's nervous habits. "I do not mean to distress you, Mother, but you just said that I have no prospects for matrimony. I have little money and have always been plain and ill suited to society. Therefore, taking up the office of governess or companion are the only respectable options for me."

"Yes, yes," Mrs Bennet murmured, twisting her handkerchief fretfully. "But you will be so far removed from me … Even London is such a long way from here."

A rare mischievous impulse took hold of Mary Bennet and she replied archly; "Confess, Mother, the distance would be of little consequence if I removed there to join a husband. Are those not your sentiments?"

"Well!" Mrs Bennet gasped once more. "That was a remark not unlike one dear Lizzy would have made, and you misunderstand me vastly, my dear. I miss all my children monstrously, especially dear sweet Lydia – so far away in the North. It has been over two years since I have seen her and your father is _so_ provoking. He says he will not travel to see Mr and Mrs Wickham – that they must come to us. But how can they manage to do so? Dear Mr Wickham's salary as a soldier does not extend to such luxuries as travelling across the country to visit family."

Much diverted by her lamentations for her favourite daughter, Mrs Bennet's focus was quickly removed from Mary Bennet and that young lady listened to her mother with half an ear while making plans for her future competence. There was a tolerable satisfaction in her reflections – she possessed little fondness for childish prattle but thought that she might teach older ones rather well or be a good companion to a respectable dowager. She had become a little more sensible with age, and now regretted that her manner in the past had prevented her being able to guide her younger sisters as they should have been.

Lydia, wild and irresponsible, had dismissed Mary's efforts as sermonising and Catherine, weak-willed and pettish, had always followed where Lydia led. The scandal of Lydia's elopement was still much talked of by the denizens of Meryton, and had surprised Catherine out of continuing to imitate her youngest sister. Although she would always be guided by her strong sensibilities, thanks to her spending much time with the Darcys and the Bingleys, Catherine had improved so much in the time since that Major Banks had become thoroughly bewitched by her, culminating in their marriage just three months ago.

"My dear; you have attended to scarcely one word I have said!" Mrs Bennet complained in a wounded tone. "I do declare, Mary; you can be most inconsiderate at times; a heartless, unfeeling girl."

Mary watched as her mother, deeply offended, burst out of the room then picked up her sister Elizabeth's letter with a sigh and read it once more.

 **My dear Mary,**

 **I find that I have missed you greatly since I married and removed, and would dearly love to see you again. Therefore, Fitzwilliam and I would be privileged to have you come to Pemberley for the summer months if our dear Mama is willing to release you.**

Their mother, Mary reflected, would not miss her very much. And she continued reading.

 **You must come, dear; the library over which you have doubtless heard Papa exclaim is even more improved, the grounds are magnificent and we have a very handsome pianoforte to tempt you. Two years are too long to go without seeing all of my dear sisters.**

Even Lydia? Lydia's husband and Elizabeth's openly despised each other – the reasons for which even careless Lydia had never disclosed. After Lydia's removal to the North she had corresponded little and the much longed for invitation to Newcastle for their mother and Catherine had never eventuated. Elizabeth had always been far closer to Jane, with Lydia preferring Catherine, so this sudden desire for Mary's company struck her as being motivated by mere sentiment.

 **And Meryton society has never appealed to you, so do come. The length of my paper forces me to bid adieu and to close with another appeal to your sisterly feelings. Fitzwilliam will arrange a coach and four to collect you at your command – and our best bedchamber will be set aside for you.**

 **With much love,**

 **Your sister, Lizzy.**

Elizabeth had no need to resort to bribery to assure herself of Mary's agreement to the request. Her company had always been the most agreeable to Mary of any of her family, although rarely offered by Elizabeth and never accepted by Mary – to be able to spend several months with Elizabeth without the other sisters being in the way was a notion most tolerable.

"Oh! Mr Bennet!" Mary heard Mrs Bennet cry as she sallied forth into her husband's sanctuary. "You will never guess what that monstrous child has said to me!"

Mary was now resolved – to Pemberley she would go.

AUSTEN-AUSTEN-AUSTEN

The decision made was much bewailed by Mrs Bennet and Mr Bennet said little excepting; "I am not frightened at the notion of your going away – you were never _quite_ as silly as Lydia and Kitty, and Pemberley is a far different place to Brighton. There are no soldiers for you to flirt with there, my dear."

"I have never flirted and have no wish to do so, Father," Mary returned sharply, feeling greatly offended. Did he know her so little as to think that she admired redcoats? She appreciated their patriotism, the nobility of serving one's country, but to seek out their company, to laugh at their jokes, and to compare their countenances and figures as Lydia and Catherine had so often done? The very idea was distasteful to Mary Bennet. "Make yourself easy," she added more softly. "Even if I were as silly as my younger sisters, I will be much in the company of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy – they would keep me respectable even if I wished to act otherwise."

"You are right, Mary – I should know better," her father startled her now by saying. "I wish you well and please give my love to little Lizzy and my compliments to Mr Darcy when you write next."

"I shall, and thank you, Father," Mary replied, surprised by the rare affectionate tone that Mr Bennet employed. "I am pleased to have your consent."

"Oh! To be sure; I could have refused Lizzy's pleading but Mr Darcy also entreated me and that is a man to whom I can refuse nothing – I owe him so much."

Fitzwilliam Darcy had been the means of finding the eloped Wickham and Lydia, and their Uncle Gardiner had provided a sufficient dowry to persuade the unworthy young man to marry that stupid girl, thereby rescuing her from the consequences of her folly. Wickham would have been a fool to take Lydia for a farthing less than at least five thousand pounds – a sum far beyond the reach of Mr Bennet or the Philipses. The Gardiners had at the time been their wealthiest connexions, engaged respectably in trade in London, but such a sum must have caused great distress.

"And so, Mary, you intend to advertise while you are at Pemberley?" Mr Bennet said now, surprising Mary once again with the attention. "You are quite a sensible, intelligent young woman – you will make a good governess or companion. I have sometimes wished that we had had a governess for you girls, but if one does not wish to learn, learn they will not – and my money was better employed elsewhere. You taught yourself well, are becoming a woman of much information and some understanding – you will always be respected wherever you go for that. It is a painful thing to have no respect for one's partner in life – your husband will be spared that should you ever choose to marry."

Mary did not pretend to misunderstand what he meant. He had married a very pretty young woman knowing very little of her character or her understanding, and had found himself with a wife he could not respect or even like. Happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance, but Mary had witnessed the deep affection and respect shown by Jane and Mr Bingley, and by her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, and knew that she could no longer countenance the idea of marrying a man she neither respected nor liked simply to secure herself.

Charlotte Lucas had sought marriage to Mary's cousin, Mr Collins, for such a reason. Elizabeth had always thought of Charlotte with respect and admiration, but this act had sunk her temporarily in Elizabeth's opinion. However, as Charlotte Collins was Elizabeth's most intimate friend, Mary had never felt comfortable in voicing her initial opinion that, at seven and twenty and with no other prospects, Charlotte had acted very prudently. Elizabeth was such a romantic, stating frequently that only the deepest love would induce her to marry. Mary could only hope that Elizabeth truly respected _her_ chosen partner, whom she had taken particular delight in maligning for the first months of their acquaintance.

Her father sighed, and Mary made an effort to recall herself to the present. "But you will need something to read while you travel, Mary," he said now. "Since Jane and little Lizzy left, you are the only sensible person besides myself in this house. I encourage you to make use of this library – even a sensible person can turn to silliness for lack of aught better to think of. And there is no time like the present; you must have your small collection memorised by now."

"Thank you, Father," Mary replied. The bookroom was not large but was well thought out and showed her father's learned and eclectic tastes. "If I may borrow some books to read tonight, I will importune you no further." The bookroom had always been Mr Bennet's sanctuary from his silly wife and even sillier youngest children, and Mary had never felt the wish to disturb that sanctuary.

"Of course." Mr Bennet turned back to his glass of wine and his book, dismissing Mary with a small smile.

Before her father could change his mind, Mary turned to the task of choosing several of her favourite books for the night. She would, however, need more than a few books for her journey to Pemberley. Mr Darcy had originally offered to collect Mary from Longbourn on his way back from London with Miss Darcy, but Elizabeth knew Mary would not be comfortable with a three-day journey with a stranger and an intimidating brother that was nearly a stranger. Therefore, he would instead arrange for two of his maids to come to Longbourn to accompany her into Derbyshire, but Mary was of a taciturn, unsocial disposition and preferred to pass long hours alone with her books. Only her strict observance of propriety had prevented her refusing Mr Darcy's kind offer.

'The Vicar of Wakefield', 'The Elegant Extracts', and for more serious reading Fordyce's 'Sermons to Young Women'. While Mary had learned to not lecture people, she read Dr Fordyce's sermons regularly – although outmoded, they interested her greatly.

"Mary," Mr Bennet said abruptly, causing her to startle, "why do you not keep Fordyce in your bookroom?"

"Really, Father?" Mary stared up at him. Books were infinitely precious to Mr Bennet, and he rarely even loaned them out, and never had she known him to give one away.

"Really," her father confirmed. "I do not know the last time I opened those volumes and books should be read. Please take them."

"I … Thank you, Father," Mary replied and set aside her selection for the new few days. She was debating over 'The Children of the Abbey', which she had never read, when her mother burst back into the bookroom.

"Mr Bennet! Such dreadful news!" the lady exclaimed now. "You will never believe it. I could scarcely believe it myself when Lady Lucas informed me."

"If I will never believe it, there is little to be gained from sharing it with me," Mr Bennet replied coolly, not even looking up from his book.

After seven and twenty years of marriage, Mrs Bennet had learned to ignore her husband's insolence. "Mrs Collins has come out of her lying-in, and she has a boy. A _boy_ , Mr Bennet! He will forever keep this house from our line, and when we are gone dear Mary will have no home."

"That was a likely prospect in any case, my dear," Mr Bennet reminded her dryly. "Mr Collins is to inherit after _I_ am gone, and there is little likelihood that we will produce an heir before my passing."

"Is this meant to comfort me?" Mrs Bennet cried peevishly then, receiving no response from her husband, turned to Mary. "If you would just exert yourself, you could marry tolerably well. You are not hideously deformed and if you would walk more in the sunshine, your colour would improve a vast deal. You have very pretty eyes and exercise would brighten them. You are not handsome but you could make more effort."

Mary had never been fond of physical exertion, and her thin face, sallow skin and dull eyes bore that out. But she had listened to her mother's bemoaning her lack of handsome features for many years, and it no longer had the power to hurt her. "I prefer to enhance my accomplishments than to feed my vanity," she replied now – her former unfounded pride in her accomplishments had been vanity, but she had not yet grown wise enough to realise it. "Beauty is fleeting but information is forever. I should much rather be able to hold a rational discussion than be feted as the beauty of the county." Not for worlds would she have expressed the ironic amusement she felt at her mother's sudden preference for exercise – she who had so frequently criticised Elizabeth for her preference for long walks.

Her final book chosen, she turned back to her father, trying not to listen to her mother's continuing complaints regarding Mary's many deficiencies as a daughter. "I have chosen my books, Father, and will now leave you." The despair in her father's eyes prompted her to add; "Mother; I would be much obliged for your help in beginning to make over my gowns for my stay at Pemberley. You know I possess no taste for such things, and Elizabeth and Mr Darcy mean to hold a ball while I am at Pemberley."

Distracted from her feeble-minded moanings, Mrs Bennet immediately brightened. "But of course, my love! Mr Bennet; you will excuse me, I trust – dear Mary has far greater need of me than you do."

"Then you must go, my lady," Mr Bennet replied. As Mrs Bennet left his sanctuary, he favoured Mary with an ironic smile and raised his eyebrows. "Off you go, my dear, and try to ignore your own good sense for another few months. July will see you gone to Pemberley and you can then be rational once more."


	2. Reunion with a Sister

**July 1812:**

"How much farther are we to travel?" Mary asked her companions wearily.

"Not so far now, Miss Bennet," the older woman – a comfortable, matronly creature – replied soothingly. "The estate is vast but you shall soon see where our dear Mrs Darcy has been so happy since she arrived."

"There," the younger one said, aiming a small hand out of the window of the very handsome coach Mr Darcy had sent. "Welcome to Pemberley, Miss Bennet."

As Mary took in the splendours of the stately home, she saw her sister spring lightly down the grand stairs and come briskly over to the carriage, her cheeks glowing and her eyes bright. Clearly she had not given up some of her independent physical activities; had not retired into comfortable matronhood.

Elizabeth Darcy – a vastly pretty woman of three and twenty years – pulled open the carriage door. "Mary!" she cried in tones of great excitement. "It is so good to see you, dear – I trust your journey was pleasant."

"It was indeed satisfactory, thank you," Mary replied, startled at the warmth of her reception and falling into her old stiff, repressed habits. She would always be uncomfortable in society but had grown somewhat out of the pompous didactic manner of expressing herself. "You look well, Elizabeth – and how do Mr Darcy and little Thomas fare?"

Elizabeth smiled at the mention of the newest addition to the Darcy family – a boy born only twelve weeks earlier. "I feel well," she said, "and both Fitzwilliam and Thomas are in excellent health." She took Mary's arm in a companionable hold as the latter emerged from the carriage. "Georgiana has also returned to us from London – she has been there for the Season since her coming out. You had little chance to talk to her at my wedding, but I believe you will like her vastly. And Fitzwilliam's cousin Brigadier Fitzwilliam will join us very soon. He is to take possession of the estate at Morley and will be able to visit us often, much to Fitzwilliam's delight – the two have always been great friends."

Mary had never encountered Brigadier Henry Fitzwilliam but had heard much about him from Elizabeth and Mr Bennet. Even second hand, his good sense, his warm manner and his information had impressed her. He was one of the few men that would be worth talking to in her opinion; his age, his occupation and his nature were likely to prevent him indulging in the many fopperies to be found in the young dandies that so exasperated Mary. "I look forward to meeting Miss Darcy again," she said now, "but such an elegant and accomplished young lady will surely scorn my company."

"Georgiana is far better than that – do not prejudge her by the behaviour of Miss Bingley to dear Jane." Elizabeth led the weary Mary into the beautifully appointed house and drew her into a vast bookroom. "Now sit, dear, and I will arrange for tea to be served. You are my guest and you will be treated as such." She flashed a mischievous smile. "At least until you learn your way around; then you will be required to shift for yourself as much as possible in this little cottage."

Elizabeth rang the bell and an older lady appeared. "Good evening, Mrs Reynolds," she said. "This is my sister, Miss Mary Bennet. Mary; this is Mrs Reynolds, Pemberley's housekeeper."

Mrs Reynolds smiled. "Welcome to Pemberley, Miss Bennet," she said. "Shall I arrange for some tea, Mrs Darcy?"

Elizabeth chuckled. "You are a mind reader, dear lady," she replied. "Tea and some light pastries and sweetmeats, please."

"Very good, Mrs Darcy," Mrs Reynolds said, curtseyed and left for her appointed task.

Mary drew a long breath – marriage and motherhood had not slowed her energetic sister one whit. She sat down on a beautiful chaise longue and looked around the bookroom, her fingers nearly tingling at all the well-kept tomes and manuscripts. It would make two of her father's library, and this was not even the main library. She managed to resist the urge to take a book and lose herself in it. This was not her home and she could not hide from the world here as she could at Longbourn.

A maid came in with an elegant silver tea tray. The maid placed the tea tray on a nearby table. "Will that be all, Mrs Darcy?" she asked.

"That will be all, Hannah," Elizabeth replied. "It is near enough to eight o'clock now," she added. "You are dismissed for the day – go and have your supper then go to your chambers. Mary and I can fend for ourselves until Grace comes downstairs."

"Very good, Mrs Darcy," Hannah said, bobbing a curtsey.

As the maid left, Elizabeth sat down opposite Mary and picked up the teapot. "Would you like some tea, dear?" she asked.

"Yes, please," Mary said, hiding her long-held dislike for tea with ease. Although Mrs Bennet was a most indulgent parent in many respects, she had always expected her children to eat and drink whatever they were served without complaint.

Elizabeth poured the tea and Mary took it silently. Making conversation had never been one of her strong suits; even with her sisters she found it difficult, and tended to fall back on her sermons. Fortunately, although Elizabeth was outgoing and friendly, she had never needed to chatter ceaselessly unlike Lydia and Catherine.

* * *

Elizabeth Darcy – nee Bennet – regarded her younger sister thoughtfully under the guise of offering light refreshments. Time seemed to have changed Mary a good deal for the better. Although she possessed no less a taciturn nature, she had chosen to study much more, to improve her mind through well thought out books rather than threadbare extracts of morality. Catherine's last letter before her recent marriage had indicated that she found Mary's still infrequent companionship far more tolerable than she had used to, although she was not half as much fun as Lydia, of course.

Elizabeth had been too unwell to make the long trip to Meryton for Catherine's wedding, but Colonel and Mrs Banks had been invited to spend Christmas at Pemberley. Elizabeth loved all her sisters of course – even thoughtless Lydia – but Jane was the sister closest to her heart. With Catherine preferring Lydia, it had lately occurred to Elizabeth that Mary had been very much left out – had retreated when she should have been encouraged far more.

Elizabeth looked again at Mary. Near one and twenty now, Mary had a good bone structure, a light pleasing figure although tending towards thinness and pretty brown eyes that her spectacles could not disguise. Mrs Bennet bemoaned the fact that Mary would never be beautiful, but there was something unusual and striking about Mary's features. She wanted colour and brightness; Elizabeth would encourage her to join her for her daily walks in the beautiful grounds. Mary would resist of course – having never liked physical exertion – but if she intended to be a governess she would have to take her charges out for walks.

As she made her plans for Mary's physical improvement, the door to the bookroom opened and a tall handsome figure of a man of one and thirty years entered. Even after more than two years of marriage Elizabeth felt much pleasure in looking at her husband and she wearied of his companionship never. "Good evening, my dear," he said, bending at the waist, picking up her hand and placing an affectionate kiss on her fingers.

Many people, Elizabeth included, were rather too quick to misunderstand Fitzwilliam Darcy upon first making his acquaintance. His heart was warm, his manner well bred and his information first-rate, yet a degree of reserve prevented his making such a good impression in company as that so easily achieved by Charles Bingley and Henry Fitzwilliam. Indeed, many saw his reserve as haughtiness – not always mistakenly.

But there was more to the Derbyshire gentleman than cold glares and colder pronouncements. Elizabeth blushed whenever she thought of how quick she had been to point out his faults without balancing them with his better qualities. Not that he was perfect. Far from it. He could be snobbish and was quick to resentment; his good opinion once lost was lost forever. The latter was a deep shade on his character but Elizabeth loved Fitzwilliam Darcy, ill with good.

"Good evening, Fitzwilliam," she said, trying not to chuckle when she observed Mary shrinking back slightly as if trying to hide away. The clever and well-bred gentleman had always overawed Mary – time at Pemberley would show his affectionate nature in full measure.

"Good evening, my sister," Fitzwilliam said, sitting down next to Mary and shaking her hand gently. "You look tired – I hope the journey did not fatigue you too excessively."

Elizabeth shook her head slightly at her husband's bluntness. What lady wished to be told that she looked tired?

Mary blushed and for a second she looked quite pretty. "Indeed not," she said earnestly. "Your coach is the most handsome and well appointed I have ever seen. Elizabeth knows that I am not accustomed to long journeys, and the final leg began very early this morning."

"Then you should go to bed early," Fitzwilliam said, releasing Mary's hand then pouring a cup of tea and passing a pastry to his wife. Although the most stiffly correct of males, he had some unusual ideas at times and thought nothing of performing domestic chores commonly designated the female lot. "I know that my wife would have you stay up for hours – she is seemingly inexhaustible." He sent a small smile of mischief to Elizabeth, who sighed as she bit into the delicious flaky pastry.

Mary blushed again, understandably confused by the teasing tone in a man considered by many to be proud and ill natured. "I would not wish to offend you, Elizabeth," she said seriously. "I am not so tired that I cannot stay up."

"You will not deliberately wear yourself ragged on my account," Elizabeth replied firmly. She loved Mary dearly but had forgotten just how very serious she was. And while Fitzwilliam was just as serious, he was also possessed of a sly sardonic wit that very few suspected. Even Georgiana did not see it – perhaps not surprisingly, for her brother had had guardianship of her since she was a child. "Besides, I have a lovely walk that I am once again fit to undertake." She could not entirely suppress the blush that arose when she thought of another activity she was once again fit to undertake. "And I want you to see Pemberley at its best."

"I am no walker, Elizabeth, but I admired the grounds from the carriage," Mary said. "And I feel that I would like to see them more closely. However, I do not believe that you would have patience with my elderly footfalls."

The self-deprecating tone quite startled Elizabeth – Mary had always seemed so very satisfied with herself, even when no-one else shared that satisfaction. "Elderly footfalls," she teased gently. "You are my younger sister – therefore, if you are elderly what does that make me?"

She saw Fitzwilliam open his mouth – obviously about to make a teasing remark – and pushed a sweetmeat into that mouth. "I was not addressing you, my husband," she chided sternly, wagging her finger then chuckling when he nearly choked on the sweetmeat. His eyes plainly showed that he would exact his revenge later, but for now he subsided into a corner of the settee and sipped his tea elegantly.

"You are but two years older than I am and you have always had an engaging lively manner that I will never possess," Mary said. "No-one would believe you to be older than me." She pushed her spectacles back up her nose and looked around the bookroom. "This is a beautiful room, Elizabeth – I could spend all my time here and never feel that I was missing out on anything. But for you I will endeavour to be sociable while I am here, and even at the ball."

"That is very obliging of you," Elizabeth replied with a laugh, "but this will be a quiet ball – not as full and noisy as the assemblies held in Meryton."

"I have rarely enjoyed myself at an assembly despite my outward appearance," Mary said with a startling frankness. "I always wished that I was too young to be out." She sighed and fiddled with her sleeve. "I still wish that," she added, "for I am so ill-suited to society."

Elizabeth caught her sister's hand and gave it a squeeze, saddened when Mary flinched away. "You will enjoy this ball, dearest, for I will not throw you in the path of every eligible gentleman. You do not have to dance should you choose not to." She remembered Mary's delicate grace during their girlhood lessons and wondered why she either read or played the pianoforte at assemblies – when she chose to attend at all. Such behaviour did not induce a gentleman to ask for a set.

Mary's sigh of relief was more like a gust. "Thank you, Elizabeth," she said. Then she gave a deep blush. "I … have talked too much, and I hope I have not offended you, Elizabeth, Mr Darcy," she stammered. "You have been kindness itself in allowing me to come here and …". Her eyes were wide and strained behind the spectacles and her distress would have moved even the most unfeeling person.

Fitzwilliam was far from being an unfeeling person. "My sister; you have not offended me," he said. "When I am forced into society I do not enjoy, I either retreat or become insufferable. I was horribly rude to Elizabeth the night we met in Meryton – she has taken on a formidable task in grooming me to behave appropriately and even now, there must be occasions when she wishes for me to stay silent or vice versa."

Elizabeth gave her husband a bright smile. She had taught him a valuable lesson in manners when she had refused his first proposal – and now, more than two years since their wedding, deeply appreciated his warmth, sense and good manners. "You were a bear that night," she teased, "but I was hardly devastated by your opinion of me." She stood as tall as she could and raised her brow in imitation of him. "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_. And I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men."

Fitzwilliam groaned and Mary's eyes opened wide. And then she broke into soft laughter more free and girlish than Elizabeth had ever heard from her. "Mr Darcy; that was very rude," she said, "but as Elizabeth has evidently forgiven you, you should not dwell on it."

Fitzwilliam groaned again. "My wife is never likely to forget it," he said and Elizabeth smiled to herself. "Whenever she believes that I feel too pleased with myself, she reminds me of the many occasions where I should have remained silent, and of other occasions where I should have done the opposite." Then he smiled at Mary. "At least _one_ member of the Bennet family shows me some charity."

Mary laughed again then a blush stole across her face, and she sat up straight and primly. "Of course – you are my older brother and a gentleman," she said stiffly. "I know my place, and will always give you the respect to which one of your station is entitled."

Elizabeth sighed at Mary's sudden stiffness. What could have made her withdraw so rapidly? Fitzwilliam looked as surprised as Elizabeth felt but, a reserved man himself, seemed to have more tolerance for Mary's sudden formality. She felt it behoved her to change the subject before Mary withdrew too much into herself. Elizabeth had enjoyed her sister's natural mirth and was by no means eager to see it replaced by the pedantic moralising Mary with whom she had grown up. She touched Fitzwilliam's hand. "Perhaps you have some business affairs you can attend to, my dear. I want to talk to Mary on her own – it has been far too long since I have seen her."

Fitzwilliam smiled broadly then chuckled. "Well, I can take that very unsubtle hint, _my dear_ ," he mocked but stood obligingly and bowed slightly to Mary. "Good evening, my sister," he added, "and as for you, sharp-tongued impertinent baggage that you are …"

"Yes, my love?" Elizabeth cooed with wide eyes.

Had they been alone in their private wing, she would soon have found herself in her husband's strong arms being carried into their bedchamber. Unlike many in their circle, they did not believe in separate bedchambers.

"I shall wreak my vengeance upon you," he threatened, plucked the last sweetmeat neatly from his wife's fingers, and then departed.

Elizabeth shook her head at the antics of the man seen as so staid by so many then turned back to her sister, who stared at Elizabeth with unbridled fascination. "You have a question, dear?"

"You …". Mary went pink once more and cleared her throat. "I did not believe it until now, but yours truly is a … love match, is it not?" she enquired. "Yet you disapproved of him so fiercely during the first months of your acquaintance."

And once again Elizabeth wished that she had not been so eager to point out Mr Darcy's flaws – to make sport of them. She delighted in the ridiculous, but a little less prejudice on her part would have perhaps overcome his pride and allowed her to see his gentler side so much sooner. "If my own sister cannot believe how much I love my dear Fitzwilliam, there can be no hope for me!" she exclaimed. "But I know you are a keen student of human nature – the coming months with us should clearly demonstrate to you how very much of a love match I have made." She patted Mary's free hand. "I wish you even half as happy with your future husband."

Mary inhaled sharply then began coughing. "My … future husband?" She regarded Elizabeth through wide streaming eyes. "You know that I will never marry for love – I am plain and dull. The only marriage I could possibly have is that of a second wife to a widower with a large brood or to a valetudinarian. I have no wish to be an unpaid nurse _or_ an unpaid governess. I accepted this a long time ago and despite Mother's endless twitting on the subject am quite satisfied with my future plans. Please accept that, Elizabeth, or you and I shall surely quarrel and I do not desire that."

Elizabeth was silenced by the steadiness of Mary's voice, the surety of her tone and while she regretted that Mary saw herself as unworthy of a good match, Elizabeth's relationship with this sister was too new and fragile for her to risk interfering. "If you are truly content then I will accept that, my dear," she said and stood. "And now it is time for you to meet your nephew – I know you do not share mine and Jane's love of children, but he is becoming a fine little man, and you shall like him a vast deal."

Mary stood also. "Thank you for accepting me as I am, Lizzy," she said, her usually dull eyes shining. "Now, let us greet young Master Darcy before he squalls and causes me to change my mind."


End file.
